


The Riches of the Poor

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Category: BioShock
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Art Deco Trashcan, M/M, NSFW, Not Fontaine!Atlas, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:18:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3241097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the darkness closes in, it's important to cling to the comfort you can find.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Riches of the Poor

If Jack has to be honest with himself, it was kind of nice finally having someone else to share the burden of this ordeal with--even if, at first, they almost killed each other. 

If he has to continue being honest with himself, he _did_ feel pretty bad about that, but how could he have known otherwise? He’d only spent the last…however many days it has been (and it suddenly dawns on him that he has no idea how many days it has been) following the orders of a man who claimed to have his best interests at heart. A man who begged for his help, who seemed as desperate to rescue his family as he was willing to help Jack survive.

A man who, as it turns out, was much more interested in maximizing his own gain no matter the expense.

Sure, perhaps he should have expected that a man like that would be more than willing to steal someone’s identity, but how could he have known that was the case at the time? (To use the wronged man’s own words, fate has not been very kind to him--an understatement if there ever is one. His family held hostage, his compliance extorted with promises of their safety, and--when he finally tried to do something about it--his freedom and identity both stolen in one fell swoop.) The more he thinks about it, the worse Jack feels for nearly doing him in with his wrench. And yet, every time the subject turns to Atlas’s misfortune--

“I can’t be sorry enough that y’got yourself mixed up in all this. Have I told y’that already? If I’d gotten smarter to what he was really up to--”

“Don’t--” Jack frowns. “It’s not your fault. We’ll get him back for all of this--not just for what he’s done to us, but for your family, too.”

At their mention, Atlas’s eyes turn sad. “I wish I could’ve seen them just once more. I should’ve been on that sub with ‘em. God only knows why he didn’t kill me. Maybe he didn’t think enough of me to be worth it.”

“We don’t know for sure that they’re dead--”

“Why would he keep them around? What would he need them for?”

They fall into silence. Jack goes to the desk where Atlas has laid out their combined munitions. Two revolvers, a shotgun somehow rigged to provide more power and hold more shells than originally designed, and the trusty red wrench. Jack tells himself that the only reason he has yet to get rid of the damn thing, despite what it reminds him of, is because of how effective it is at stopping anything with intentions to kill him. Still, if they have any hope of trying to storm their way into wherever it is that bastard Fontaine is hiding out, they are going to need a hell of a lot more than what they’ve got.

At least their hideout is nice.

Nice enough, anyway, for a city falling apart.

“Who do you think used to live here?”

“To tell the truth,” Atlas responds, “I don’t rightly care. S’not like I’d’ve ever been allowed in here on a good day--not unless I was here t’clean the toilets. Ugh--”

“What?” Jack looks over in time to see him toss what looks to be half an energy bar across the room. “Spoiled?”

“Maggots.” Atlas’s face scrunches. “Ugh. Fuckin’ had more’n enough o’those, thanks much.”

“There’s still the canned food.”

So the Irishman picks up a can and stares at it. He turns it over in his hands, raises it to his nose to smell it. The two of them sit in the bedroom of what was certainly once a very expensive apartment in Mercury Suites. Judging from the size and the adjoining bathroom, Jack figures it to be the master bedroom. The pair settled here to regroup, reassess their supplies, and discuss the next step. With Jack finally free of Fontaine’s conditioning, with two of them in the game instead of just one…

“Y’still got that wrench I can borrow? Maybe I can crack this open.”

Jack wanders over, hand outstretched. “Let me see? I’ll get it open.”

Atlas looks up, holds it out. The can passes between fingers that barely touch. As he sits down next to him, Jack hovers a hand over the lid and concentrates. A crack appears in the aluminum near the rim. It spreads, wraps around the entire can; he tilts his hand sideways and the lid curls backward, releasing a sweet smell that slightly surprises both men. Orange-colored chunks of peach float in what looks too thick to be water. The men exchange questioning looks. Atlas shrugs and takes the can back. Jack watches him lift it to his lips, tip his head back, watches a line of syrup trail down the corner of his mouth as he chugs it all down. In a normal situation, the behavior might have made the younger man cringe. Down here, when the choice is eat or die--

“Well?”

“Better’n maggots,” Atlas answers with a heavy breath. He roughly wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“Huh?”

“Your face. Y’look like you’ve got a thought on deck.”

“O-oh. No, I…” Jack shakes his head. “How’re you holding up?”

Atlas scoffs. “What kinda question is that? Have y’forgotten where y’are, kid?”

“I was just… You’ve been through a--a-a lot, and I’m… If we’re going to survive this,” Jack says, “I just want to make sure that you’re--”

“Stable? Sane? Not about to shove a shiv in your spine?” The Irishman flashes a sardonic smile to contrast the troubled expression on the young man’s face. “Don’t y’worry about me, kid. My shivs’re for that bastard Fontaine, and I plan to give’im one for every wrong he’s done to me--startin’ with my family. _(He looks over at Jack.)_ Did he even tell you their names? Or did he make some stupid potato-eater bullshite?”

Jack looks down at his hands. “He stole names from a poster. Patrick, Moira--”

Another scoff. “So I had a son, instead. I always wanted one, but I loved my girls.”

“You had daughters?”

“Just the one. Alice, like in that book. Breanne loved that book. I still remember--the first day that I held her, I just remember thinking of how much I loved her. How I’d do anything to protect her.”

Another scoff. The can winds up going the same way of the rotten energy bar, slamming against the wall so hard, the sound makes Jack jump a little.

“Bloody father of the year, I am. Came here to work, to earn a _real livin’ wage_ for me’n my girls, and what it got me was--was this.”

Jack ponders how to respond. What _do_ you say to something like that? “You can’t count out the possibility that they’re still alive--”

“Oh, I can. I can! I am! Better that way, in fact. Better’n my little one becomin’ a goddamn Sister, or my wife turned into some kind o’spliced up…”

Atlas breathes a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping forward with the effort. One hand goes through his hair, and for some reason, Jack fixates on the hints of gray cutting through the black.

“Better t’remember’em like I saw’em last,” the Irishman says quietly. “Happy. Healthy. _Safe._ It makes the empty feeling in my chest worse, but empty’s better. Empty’s what’ll get me through. Empty’s what’ll help me kill Fontaine.”

“And then?” asks Jack.

Atlas shakes his head slowly. “I stopped thinkin’ of the future a long time ago, kid. No point to it. Just disappointment. It’s a miracle I just didn’t stop thinkin’ altogether, or that I didn’t just stop…just _stop_.”

“Gotta have something to live for. Especially now that you’re free--”

Another of those scoffs, this one terribly bitter. “Have y’forgotten where y’are again, Jack? The two of us, we’re about as free as a pair of slaves on a sinking ship. Best we can do is try to take the captain down with us. And then…”

The rest of Atlas’s words fade into nothing as Jack takes the older man's face between his hands and, devoid of hesitation, kisses Atlas full on the mouth. He isn’t entirely sure why he does it. Maybe he just wanted a way to make the tirade of doom and gloom stop, or maybe it was the deep well of sadness and hurt radiating from his would-be survival partner. If Jack is being honest with himself, though, the reason doesn’t really matter to him as much as the action does. It just seems, to Jack, to be what makes the most sense. Time jolts to a stop. Atlas tenses but does not pull away. A questioning sound vibrates softly against the younger man's lips. Rough fingertips alight on the back of Jack's left hand.

The kiss ends and time resumes, slowly, in seconds timed to their breaths.

Atlas touches his lips with those same workman's fingers. He looks up at Jack, eyes full of more questions.

"Wh--?” He starts to shake his head. “I-I’m not--"

“I’m…not, either,” Jack admits, sitting beside him on the bed. “At least, not…not entirely. Partially.”

“Partially?”

“Yeah.” Jack shrugs. “But--but that’s not the point--”

“It’s not? I would--” Atlas clears his throat. He tries to put a discreet bit of distance between them. “I’d be thinkin’ that it is!”

“I mean, I just-- It’s just--I didn’t--” The younger man’s cheeks begin to turn pink. He lowers his eyes and stands. “Forget it. I’m sorry.”

“Wait--”

But Jack is already halfway to the worktable in the corner, feeling Atlas watch him in silence. For a moment, he has no idea why he chose that specific spot or what to do now that he is there--then, as if prodded in the side, Jack’s hands jerk out and pick up the revolver. He dismantles it too hastily, reaches for the cleaning rag too roughly.

“What were y’goin’ t’say?”

“What?” Jack sounds distracted, or at least is doing his best to _sound_ distracted.

“Before,” Atlas clarifies. “Finish your thought. What were y’goin’ t’say before?”

Silence, save for the sounds of Jack continuing his cleaning work on the revolver. Perhaps, if he can just keep focused on his current work, this whole awkward situation can pass into that special part of the past where ignored moments go. It’s easy and he’s used to it. He just has to keep quiet, keep his head down and his eyes focused on _this very important job_ and--

Footsteps make him look up. The first thing Jack notices is Atlas’s eyes. They resemble the stormy Atlantic he was in the process of flying over before that damn crash landed him here. Their shine is not so much from within, from the vigor for life or the fire of revenge, but borrowed from the light on the table. Jack wonders how many worse horrors those eyes have seen. The experiences Atlas has been through would have stopped most men in their tracks, no matter what their convictions or dedication to their cause, and yet here the Irishman remains--tired, hurting, but still dedicated.

Jack returns his gaze to the dismantled revolver. “I just… I’ve always sort of just felt that--that sometimes it’s not about what you like or…whatever you want to call it. Sometimes it’s just about needing.”

“Needing?” Atlas raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

“Needing what?”

Jack shrugs. “Companionship. Comfort. The--just the--the _warmth_ of another person. Who knows?”

“Hm.”

“Sometimes it’s just about the need itself,” he says. “No specific reason attached or needed, just this… _feeling_ in your core that hollows you out and demands you refill it however you can.”

And before he can stop himself, Atlas asks, “Y’think I need fillin’, do ya?”

“I-- Unless I picked up a mind-reading Plasmid without knowing…” Jack begins to blush again. He shakes his head swiftly, returns his focus to the cleaning the revolver. “I shouldn’t have just assumed-- It wasn’t-- I-I don’t normally--”

Atlas grabs the young man by the shoulders and turns him to stand face-to-face, causing Jack to drop the revolver’s cylinder in surprise. He glances down, a muttered half-curse escaping his lips and the intent to ask if it landed on the older man’s foot on his mind. He only gets out half a word before a pair of rough hands tilt his face up. The other half is stifled by a mouth that tastes faintly of whiskey and sea salt. Now Jack is the one who tenses. What is this? Given consent? A request? Maybe it’s a all ruse, a test to see just how far off the straight and narrow the new errand boy veers. What does it mean for Jack to pass, to fail?

Why, considering his willingness to initiate moments earlier, is this now all bothering him?

Still, the fact that it does is enough to make him cautious. Carefully, gently, Jack sets his hands on Atlas’s wrists and pulls free--but not away.

“U-uhm--” He breathes in, short and sharp. “Is--? What is this?”

Atlas shrugs, his gaze fixed pointedly on the younger man’s lips. “Supposin’ that y’might be right, perhaps, n’sayin’ what y’said. Maybe I’ve… But I-I’m not--I mean, I don’t--I never--”

“I know. It’s okay. I’ve… I have, before.” Jack releases Atlas’s wrists and watches him return to the bed. “But you’re sure about this?”

“Maybe not…e-everything. Maybe some things.” The older man sits down, hands resting his knees. He avoids Jack’s gaze. “Hell, I dunno. I’m just tired, kid. Tired o’feelin’ this--this _ache_ in the pit o’my chest… _(He rests his face in his hands.)_ Not sure I remember what it even felt like, bein’ happy, feelin’ anything other than cold or hungry or tired. Maybe that’s what I need--to just…to feel somethin’ different, if it’s what you’re offerin’.”

It is, sort of, but Jack wonders just how much good it will do.

Still, nothing ventured…

This time, when their lips meet, there is mutual interest. Jack leads, careful to watch for signs that it might be better to back off. He feels Atlas’s fingers on his waist, perhaps exploring where to rest them. When they come to rest on his hips, however, Jack feels himself pulled closer and takes it as a cue to straddle the man’s lap. They break contact long enough to catch a breath, to trade a questioning look for a nod. There is soft color on Atlas’s pale face. A new kind of alertness is there, too, one that is starting to give his eyes a new shine. Renewed contact brings new warmth, added passion. He’s more into it now, Jack can tell, but he stutters the first time their mouths open at the same time. The younger man scales it back, settles for making Atlas shiver when Jack runs his fingers through his dark hair.

“Cor--” Atlas grips tighter to Jack’s hips. “I almost forgot--”

“You can… It’s okay to--to touch me, you know.”

“I dunno h--ow-- _oh_ \--”

And here Jack fails to suppress a short laugh against the crook Atlas’s neck. With second shift of his hips, he draws out a little sound from the ever-reddening mouth that increasingly yields to his own. Atlas’s fingers are digging into his back now. He is nudging with his nose, trying to mimic Jack’s actions even as the slow grind happening between them is making it difficult to be smooth about the attempt. He mumbles something that Jack is certain is a swear and the young man decides to tilt his head _just enough_ …

But he does not let up the motion of his hips, and he gets more pleasure out of all the little moans Atlas tries to bury in his skin than he does the friction. His hands, meanwhile, go exploring on their own. They dispatch the suspenders and divine the landscape of the older man’s chest. The buttons of Atlas’s shirt put up little resistance, nor does he when Jack pushes it off his shoulders. The action seems to signal something, though--as if they’ve approached a fork in the road--and it makes the passion taper off. They sit in the uneven silence, catching their breaths--Jack still straddled across Atlas’s hips as the older man leans back on his hands. The younger man reaches, pulls his sweater up and off. He contemplates whether or not the undershirt goes, too, and decides to wait instead, aware that Atlas is appraising him with almost the same look as when they first met after the incident in Smuggler’s Bounty.

“Truth is, you’re not bad t’look at, for a lad,” he says, finally. “Could be doin’ worse, I guess.”

“If that’s what you want,” Jack answers.

“Mm?” The Irishman raises an eyebrow. “What’re you talkin’ about? Getting cold feet on me suddenly?”

“I just mean that there are options. We could--but I mean, you’ve never--”

“Not with a _man_ , no, but how much different is it, really?”

“Well…if you really want me to show you…” Jack shifts himself into better position, hands resting close to Atlas on either side. “I could always just keep at what I was doing before--”

“I, ah--”

“You liked that.”

“Aha--I…oh, _fuck_ \--” Atlas breathes out a chuckle, draws in air through his teeth. “Next you’ll be tellin’ me you’ll suck me off--”

“If it’s, uh--if that’s what you want.” A smirk flashes across Jack’s face. “I did say there were options.”

“That y’did.”

The silence that falls is tense. Atlas seems to look everywhere but at the young man still straddled across his lap, but Jack tells himself to keep still out of courtesy. Better to let him think it all through than to push for something that might cause regret and strain their partnership. It’s not like this is the first time Jack has encountered such hesitation anyway. There was that farmhand one summer, the one from two properties down--

“Mm--!”

Their front teeth clack together from the force of Atlas’s pull on Jack’s shirt, but neither seems to particularly mind. The undershirt does not stay on long, pulled up and discarded by the rough fingers that explore the skin underneath with careful curiosity. Certainly, the differences must be obvious and strange. Broad shoulders and no breasts, no flaring hips, an added bulk between the legs--

“I guess we are--we’re doing this?" Jack asks.

"Supposin' so. Hngh--angh--I don't want-- _f-fuckin' hells_ , that's…that's just from friction?" Atlas whimpers and squirms on the mattress. "Jesus, it's been too long--"

"What don't you want?" He props himself up, giving himself room to trail the fingers of his right hand down the stomach Atlas's bunching undershirt has left exposed. "No sex? Mutual touching?"

"Hah--I'm not really itchin' t'go givin' y'that last bit of my virginity yet, but…if you can suck as well as y'kiss--"

"Better."

Atlas lifts his head. "Cocky bastard all of a sudden, are we?"

Jack says nothing; decides to distract with a most lurid kiss while his wandering fingers travel lower, to the button snap and zipper of the jeans. The distraction begins to falter after his hand disappears beneath the layers of denim and cotton, though the surprised moans presently being breathed into Jack’s mouth are a fair enough trade. The Irishman isn’t hard--not completely, not yet--but perhaps with just a bit more coaxing, a bit more encouragement…

He gets amusement out of the squirming underneath him, out of hearing the half-moan in protest that rises from the back of the throat when he takes his hand out of Atlas’s pants long enough to spit into the palm. Jack watches the way his blue eyes flutter shut and his lips press together; feels the subtle rising of his hips to meet his hand and takes the soft whimper as a sign to continue with gentle, measured strokes.

“Relax,” Jack tells him, squeezing a little when he reaches the base before he starts back up, an extended thumb leading the way for his fist. “Don’t think about it.”

“I’m--” Atlas exhales sharply. His eyes open, but they are unfocused. “You were-- _nngh_ \--!”

“Soon enough.” The younger man takes his hand away again and uses the opportunity to tug the jeans down. He takes a moment to appraise what he sees and chuckles. “Well, it’s certainly not bad to look at.”

“Pride of Leinster Province,” Atlas answers throatily.

“Sure.” Jack caresses what he can of the man’s bare thighs, daring to go higher, daring to push Atlas’s undershirt as high as he will be allowed. “Sit up.”

“Mm?”

“You’ll want to watch.”

His rough hands come down on top somewhere near his sternum. Jack can feel the heart beating underneath that skin, that muscle and bone. For some reason, he thinks of the rabbits from the farm.

“That confident, are we?”

He slides his hands free of their temporary prison. “They always want to watch.”

They shift in silence. The second undershirt lands somewhere near the first, and Jack actually finds himself to be…not _surprised_ or _impressed_ , exactly, but something close to it. Atlas isn’t bad to look at, not too badly built; surely, whatever job he did before this mess with Rapture certainly contributed as much to his strong arms and flat stomach as they did to his rough hands. Maybe it has more to do with expecting…

_What?_

More reservation, perhaps. It’s there, sure, but more subtly. Atlas lowers his own pants to his ankles. It takes him a few seconds before he kisses back. He tries (and fails miserably) not to flinch when Jack touches his chest, running fingertips over scars both old and as recent as the rebellion. But he doesn’t ask to stop when Jack sinks to his knees on the floor. He doesn’t push Jack’s hands away as they once again caress his thighs. His breath quickens and grows shallow as Jack’s lips follow that same path his hands took. And when Jack takes him in hand again--when he is just about to start pressing his lips up the underside of the shaft--

“You still sure about this?”

A small sound leaves the back of Atlas’s throat, but Jack has to look up to catch him nodding. So it continues, changing gradually from the warmth of his hand to the heat of his mouth with each pass; from kisses to the teasing flicker of his tongue. Each time he nears the head, Jack lingers and looks up through his lashes, straight into the eyes staring down at him with growing need. Back down he goes, listening to the frustrated sigh with a shot of amusement through his belly. Soon enough, soon enough…! Atlas is certainly hard enough for it, isn’t he? But a slow tease has always been Jack’s specialty, such that, when the moment finally arrives--

_“Christ--!”_

Atlas tastes of the sea. That’s what Jack thinks of as he takes what he can into his mouth. He tastes of sea salt, of a life spent so near ocean that it simply sinks into the skin, hiding in the bones and mixing in the blood. It’s in his scent, too, natural and undiluted. Jack breathes him in and hums his approval.

“Do, ah--do that again.”

“Hm?”

Again, Jack flicks his eyes upward as he slowly draws backward, until only the head remains in his mouth for his tongue to swirl around. Around him, Atlas squirms. He lets out a shuddering breath. The young man’s name tumbles out of his mouth.

 _“Please,”_ Atlas manages, “do that--again.”

And Jack complies, and he takes in a little bit more down his throat each time he draws forward. He adjusts his pace with cues from the motions and sounds coming from above him. With a free hand, he reaches into his pants finally tends to his own growing need, doing to himself a mimicry of what he does with his mouth. Any attempt to stifle the sounds of his own pleasure goes out the window the moment Jack sets his hand around himself. Just how long _has_ it been? Days? Weeks? It doesn’t matter. He just shuts his eyes and goes with it. Just this once, he lets his defenses dissolve. That is probably why it comes as a surprise when Atlas weaves his fingers into Jack’s hair and _pulls_. There are sounds of protest when he takes his mouth completely away, and if there’s any hint of apology in that face when the younger man looks up, it’s buried under the lust.

“Close?” asks Jack.

“I don’t--I think--” Atlas licks his lips, trying to get his breath under control. “I could be… Did I--?”

Jack shakes his head, taking the shaft in hand again. “Just, uh…just warn me, okay?”

An exchange of nods and it begins again--slow at first, gentle. Finding the rhythm again isn’t difficult. Working back towards having almost the entirety of Atlas’s length down his throat takes more effort, but one that is rewarded with affirming, unstifled moans. Letting the pleasure flood the pathways of his nerves, giving over to it as the warmth spreads to all parts of him; it’s easier than the first time around. The stronger it becomes, the more the world around him dissolves. Jack shuts his eyes as he feels Atlas’s fingers in his hair again. When the pull comes this time, he swears that he can see sparks behind his eyes. Is it the ADAM in his veins that does it? That minor reminder that he has altered himself?

For a moment, for _this_ moment, it doesn’t matter. None of the things outside this room matter. There is no Rapture. There is no danger, no risk of death at the hands of Splicers or Big Daddies.

Right now, all that exists is _here_. All that matters is their combined presence. There is nothing but this current of feeling carrying them both from one moment to the next, from one second to the next, one minute to the next--

“Jack--” The Irishman’s voice is low, tense. “Jack, I--I think I’m gonna--”

“Mm-hm--”

He pulls back halfway to give himself the clearance he needs not to choke. When Atlas comes, it’s nothing like the furtive half-orgasms shared with farm boys back home, and nothing like their flavor, either. The sound that comes out of him is deep, a low rumble. There is the expected sea salt on Jack’s tongue, but there’s a sting of bitterness to it in the aftertaste--sort of like the liquor shared during their first meeting. There is nothing of the buzz of ADAM in it and, for some reason, it’s reassuring. Grounding, for lack of a better word.

 _The last pure man in Rapture, perhaps_ , some part of him thinks.

He swallows it all; waits, even, until Atlas is a bit soft before breaking contact. The air around them is still. The world is coming back around them in pieces. (There is still the matter of his own pleasure to deal with, sure, but Jack can take care of himself just fine. Certainly, he’s proven that on multiple occasions, hasn’t he?) Slowly, on legs that will no doubt be sore later, he rises but does not leave the bedside. His focus is still on Atlas, who sits with his shoulders slumped and his eyes open but seemingly unfocused.

“Atlas?” Jack touches his face. That gets him to look up, gets his eyes to clear a little. “Are you okay?”

“I…” He blinks, licks his lips. He nods to the space beside him on the bed. “Sit.”

And Jack complies, if only out of concern. He watches the older man gather up his pants and dress himself in silence. Their gazes do not meet. It makes Jack a touch nervous. Was this too much? Did he take things too far? Is regret already sinking in?

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t register the kiss until it is actually happening. And even then--

“At--Atlas--?”

“Am I still allowed to touch you?” The words come out in a low rush. “I ain’t never been one t’not… You did for me--”

Jack starts to shake his head. “You don’t have t--”

“I want to.” And there’s an earnestness there that cannot be ignored. “But, uh, y--y’have to tell me how, ‘cause…”

They exchange a breath of laughter. Slowly, Jack nods. Atlas leans in, cups the left side of his face to pull him closer, and leaves almost chaste kisses along that strong jaw. Jack tilts his head sideways, letting out a breathy little moan when Atlas finds the spot near the back of his ear. When he feels the older man’s teeth lightly graze the spot, any thoughts that he might be going soft in his trousers revert themselves.

“You’re really…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead he takes Atlas’s hand and guides it down his chest, past his own scars both old and as recent as his arrival in Rapture; down and beneath the layers of khaki and cotton until those rough workman’s fingers act of their own accord to draw a small sound of approval from the back of Jack’s throat.

“There it is.” The murmur of Atlas’s voice in his ear sends a shiver down his back. He watches the Irishman draw his erection out of hiding; feels every nerve stand on electrified end when he lets the calloused pad of his thumb linger just underneath the head. “Like this, then? Just like this?”

 _Start slow,_ he wants to answer.

 _Keep your hand wet,_ he thinks of adding.

But the words dissipate when he tries to get them out. Instead of words there are only soft moans and tiny whimpers. He settles for nodding, teeth briefly pressed into his bottom lip, and lets himself drift on the current sweeping through him. With each stroke of Atlas’s hand, Jack feels his focus narrowing downward. His hips shift to meet each stroke as best he can. He relishes every brush of warm breath and kiss that passes over his skin.

He dimly wonders if the only reason he has yet to fall backwards onto the mattress is tied to the way Atlas’s free hand is tracing aimless designs across his shoulder blades, down his spine, along his waist… There is heat rising in his blood. A delicious little buzz begins in the back of his brain. Jack leans, finds a place to rest his head on Atlas’s bare, broad shoulder; wraps one arm about the older man’s shoulders and presses an approving kiss to the older man’s neck, followed by another, and another, and he _moans_ \--

Atlas chuckles, but it sounds so far and away. “You’re close now, ain’t ya?”

“Hngh--heh--I-I think--” Jack nuzzles him and whimpers. He digs his fingers into Atlas’s shoulder. “O-oh, God, _I think so_. I think--”

“Go on, then.”

“I--” The younger man draws in a stuttering breath and shifts his hips. “A-Atlas--”

“Go on,” Atlas tells him, picking up the pace of his strokes. “You’re right there, ain’t ya? Right at that edge? Go on. Go over.”

And Jack, well…

He goes right on over. Everything goes taut a moment before the full impact of his orgasm strikes first at the back of his brain. It spreads downward fast and hot, flooding every nerve with pleasure. For a moment he loses sense of self and surroundings. He shivers against Atlas and mumbles something indecipherable into the crook of the Irishman’s neck. He is dimly aware of being spoken to, of being held. For a moment, all he can focus on is the rhythm of his heart, on breathing.

“Jack? Jack, talk to me.”

He comes back to himself in pieces. He remembers where he is. He recalls why he is here. He remembers who is with him.

“Jack--”

“I’m okay,” he manages. “I haven’t-- It’s--”

“Been a while for you, too, huh?”

And they both laugh, tiredly, and Jack nods. They disengage from each other quietly. Each takes to their own ways of cleaning up. Jack tries to turn it all over in his mind as he redresses, tries to figure out what it means for their partnership--if it means anything at all. The conclusion he swiftly comes to is that now is simply not the time to wonder about things like this. It’s much too soon. It’s still too fresh. He’s much too tired. All good reasons, really, to just accept things as they are for now.

It happened. That’s all that matters for now.

“Kid--” Atlas, still half-undressed, looks at Jack with a quizzical expression. “Where y’goin’?”

“I was, uh…” He gestures out into the hallway. “There’s another bedroom, so--”

“Ah.” There is an awkward beat of silence. Atlas looks around, like maybe the gears are turning. “It’s a good chance that it’s gonna be pretty cold, y’know.”

Jack tilts his head a little. “Yeah?”

“This part o’town’s always been a bit better about its pipes, but I mean, with Hephaestus in shambles thanks t’your handiwork, I’d wager it’s probably gonna get colder’n the deepest pit of Hell here soon enough.” The older man scratches the back of his neck. “And I mean, with the Splicers out in force and lookin’ for ya on Fontaine’s word… And I--well, the bed’s big enough, I guess, and I don’t really move…that much…”

Atlas clears his throat. He wrings his hands.

“I’m just _sayin’_ ,” he adds, “it might be smarter practice just to share.”

“Safer,” Jack affirms, nodding slowly.

“Safer, sure.”

They fall into silence again, but it’s considerably less awkward. Their eyes meet. Jack smiles a little.

“I’ll get the blankets off the other bed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Initially inspired by a conversation of headcanons with a friend in which Atlas and Fontaine are separate people. Also, [now there's a sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3303053)!


End file.
